Scars
by Katgirl1236
Summary: Set during WWII, the temporary French government had been set up in England. Both England and France realize that they need each other to get through this war. Bad Summary. Fruk. Fr/UK.


_**~Scars is a FrUK fanfic that I thought of while in a odd mood and felt like writing some feels. Enjoy?~**_

* * *

_ France had fallen. It was WWII and Hitler had turned sights onto France. With the help of Italy, within five days, France was now under their control. France had been forced to England, along with the temporary government that had been settled there by his leader, Charles De Gaulle._

"Get away from me, I don't need your pity." France turned his back on the blonde. He wouldn't let the other nation gloat.

France stared across the channel to his country. His _home_. The thought of the Germans doing to it what they pleased brought a vile taste to his mouth and a burning sensation to his eyes. He would not cry in front of a person who, though his entire existence, had sought out to make him beg. All the pain that the island nation had caused is nothing compared to the pain he felt now. A wave of pain racked his body and against all his will, France fell to his knees. He coughed blood onto the ground, mixing with the stony beach.

England stepped forward to help him, putting a hand on his shoulder. France slapped his hand away and stumbled to his feet, staring at England like he was Hitler himself. England's expression, as he looks at this side of the other blonde, is the same as France's towards his overtaken country. His hair, usually beautiful and near perfect, was array and his blue eyes crazed. It hurt him to see France like this, like a man on the verge of madness. England, ignoring the stinging feeling in his hand, retrieved a handkerchief from his coat pocket. He stepped forward and before France could do anything, wiped the blood from his mouth. France's expression softened a little at the gentle touch.

"I never offered pity, only help." England says, suddenly scowling, refusing to look France in the eyes. He knew Germany would be after him next, but he pushed that thought away. He had more important matters, he had to get his friend back together before he fell apart. "This always happens," England says softly, putting the handkerchief away. He makes no move to back away, but only looks France in the eyes. "One of us gets hurt and the other has to be the strong one. The support to the crumbling building."

France chuckles, sadly, "Can the support hold the building this time? What happens when the pillar cracks?"

England turns and walks a few steps away. "The pillar will try its best, but if it does break, it can be built back again. Stronger." He answers, proudly. If he does fall, he will make sure that France will fall with him, not before him. He looks to the sky and watches the falling sun. "We must head back, it's almost night." Almost time. France attempts to smooth his hair and nods. England, without looking back, swiftly walks forward. The sound of footsteps behind him urges him forward. He can't fall.

* * *

France, barely being able to hold the shaking nation, stumbles into the house. The blitzkrieg had already started.

The German bombs devastate the country. The English can expect most bombs, thanks to radar. Even as innocent people are saved with the device, there is no hiding how horrifying the attacks are. How horrifying it is for France to watch as England screams out and squirms in his arms.

"France!" He screams out, gripping the other nation's shirt.

"We are almost there, I promise!" France says worriedly, barely managing to close the door behind him as he hurried down the steps to the basement. He sets England on a cot and gets a container of water, pouring it on a cloth and dabbing England's sweaty face. " Shhh, we are safe."

"Kill me... Kill me please..." England softly says, staring France in the eyes. He arcs his back and screams again, before he lays still, whimpering. France, tears rolling down his face, wipes England's face again. He uses the same gentle touch that he received, not even an hour ago. England pants loudly, looking at the other man. "I th-think its over." He says, those words taking as much effort to say as running a mile would take. France wipes his eyes on the back of his hands, nodding.

England dozes off in seconds and France notices blood seeping through his shirt. Shaking, he gently moves the other's arm and undoes his shirt buttons, pulling it open. He gets medical supplies and starts stitching the gash on the Brit. This happens occasionally when a country goes through extreme pain or wars. It is hard to find a nation without scars, even if they haven't fought first hand in the war. He puts bandages over the stitches, he will properly wrap it when England is able to stand or at least sit up. He wipes his eyes again, smearing blood on his face in the process. France gets up and rinses his hands in the sink, the water bringing the Englishman out of his stupor. France turns the water off, gripping the sides of the sink, knuckles white. England quietly manages to get up, picking up the cloth as France turns.

"England! Lay down, you are going to hurt yourself!" France orders him, but England wipes his blood off the other's face. France holds the hand with the cloth against his face. "Why do you always have to put others before yourself?" He asks, softly. England looks into France's eyes.

"Why do you always have blood on your face?" He retorts, but the Frenchman chuckles.

"Because I will have you there to clean it for me." France goes to laugh again but England wraps his arms around him. France looks at the top of the blonde's head as it is pressed against his shoulder. "Engl-?"

"Shut up, you arrogant prick!" England says, his words muffled by France's shoulder. "Just shut up, stop getting blood on yourself Francis! I may be there to clean it for you, but it doesn't mean that it doesn't bother me." He keeps his eyes shut, tears leaking from the corners. They open with a start of surprise as France wraps his arms around the smaller man.

"I will stop when you do, Arthur." He says, pressing his lips to the top of his head. Arthur looks up at Francis as kisses the tears from the corner of his eyes, hand reaching to skim the bandage on Arthur's side. "It will scar." Arthur presses his lips to Francis's, taking the other by surprise. Arthur pulls back, smiling slightly.

"But this scar will have a good memory attached." His eyes close as Francis kisses him, and holds him up before he falls as another wave of bombs hit.


End file.
